Floor Three gets out, but Veg Floor stays and starts whistling through his teeth. “After you,” the doctor says when the lift reaches the fifth floor—the veg compartment.

“Thank you, sir,” I mumble. Fantastic, Valentiner. Damn.

A set of double doors swings open in front of us with a gentle thud. I’m just planning to get back into the lift as soon as the doctor is out of sight and go back down to the second floor when a nurse comes through the doors.

“You can go straight in, love.”

“Thank you.” Damn, damn, DAMN!

I’ve now gone too far to admit that I’m in completely the wrong place, so I walk decisively along the wide corridor—and she follows me! This unit is completely unlike the warehouse downstairs. The corridor is carpeted. The air is pleasantly cool and it’s very, very quiet. There’s none of the tension you feel in the intensive care unit with all the bright lights and alarms and the constant vigilance and injections and incisions to ward off approaching death. This floor is like the forgotten attic of an old house.

What do I do if the nurse follows me to the very end of the corridor? What do I say? “Oops, wrong building. I meant to go to the intestine department, actually.”

There are photos on the doors here. Laughing, friendly faces, and under each one, a name.

On the first door: “Leonard.” The photo shows a man wearing blue overalls and a Manchester United scarf and sitting on an excavator. I can hear someone sobbing quietly on the other side of the door.

The second door: “Elisabeth.” The photos show her holding up a tart. Behind the door I hear a man’s voice saying, “Now breathe out. I’m turning your wrist to the left . . . Yes, nice and relaxed, as if you were whipping cream . . . good . . . to go with scones.”

After two or three more doors—“Amanda” and “William” and “Yamashiro”—I’ve understood the principle: the pictures are of the people who live on the other side of those doors. In the veg compartment. I’m willing to bet they no longer look like they do in the photos.

“Then again, frozen vegetables don’t resemble the pictures on the packaging either, mon ami.” I hear Scott inside my head making comments that I would never allow to cross my mind.

The nurse is still tailing me. I continue along the corridor, calculating that I’ll probably have to walk straight into the end wall because I can’t think of anything else to do. I’m coming to the last door, which is ajar. The sign on it reads “Madelyn.”